this one's for the torn down (the experts at the fall)
by acivilorange
Summary: Before the world ended there had been an interesting curse; "May you live in interesting times." Chaotic, and turbulent, and dangerous. These are such times. Before the 100 crashed on earth there was a whole society fighting for their right to exist every day. A world where children go to war, mountains devour villages and stars fall from the sky.
1. legitimacy (or something like it)

**Note:** I've never been good at multi-platforming, but here I am! I'm going to post a new chapter every few days; all the while editing and tweaking, since apparently I don't know how to speak English properly. Feel free to follow me on tumblr **civilorange** ; I accept prompts, comments, suggestions and general shenanigans.

 **Summary:** Before the world ended there had been an interesting curse; "May you live in interesting times." Chaotic, and turbulent, and dangerous. These are such times. Before the 100 crashed on earth there was a whole society fighting for their right to exist every day. A world where children go to war, mountains devour villages and stars fall from the sky.

"Maybe it makes us both villains," it's a sad thought, without heart and without soul, "maybe there are no heroes."

(or)

We know the commander who united the twelve grounder clans, who made choices with her head, and not her heart. But how did she get like that? She found victory on the back of sacrifice, but belief was a little harder to grasp.

"Go back inside, sky girl." Some rebellious shard inside howls stay, but it is one impulse amongst many—and it will not win this night. "There's nothing out here for you tonight."

* * *

You're five summers old when your father allows you to travel with him; he's a whip of a man, tall and narrow, and he ghosts through your life once or twice a year. Your parents never stayed, not like the other families in the village—you mother was a woman who only showed her face at night, and always with a new nameless man and your father is the rickety wheels of a merchant caravan and a tarnished golden necklace. The orphanage says you'll be a healer, or a farmer—but you want to be like your father. You want to wash away into the afternoon sun, and always be greeted with a smile—small villages would die without the seasonal trade caravan, without the ridiculously overprices goods and the cutthroat business man who ran it.

It isn't until you're tall enough to reach the rings at the top of the cart, or strong enough to direct the massive horses that you're allowed to join him—not as his daughter, he's insistent that he doesn't have any of those. But as his apprentice—his _second_ you chirp too helpfully, a term you've heard around the older boys, who practically salivate when warriors come back from the skirmishes on the far borders. Stopping briefly to get a hot meal, and a good night's sleep.

"No," he's insistent again, not his _second_. His apprentice. His accent is rough, from far north, and his hair is pale, the color of wheat and the sun, and when it's hot and bright in the summer, you compare the streaks of color that tangle through your dark strands. Sun bleaching, an old woman croons while petting your head like an animal—she's haggling over wolf pelts, and your father is all crooked smiles and shrugging shoulders. He asks for ten, she promises eight and a meal—he then asks for twelve, and somehow ends up with ten and a meal.

You wonder why they always agree—your father is hardly intimidating, and he never raises his voice. It's something in his sharp green eyes, something that makes people nervous, and yet still wish to be around him—a healer supplies the answer. It wasn't something in his eyes—it was something that was _missing_ , that common courtesy, the ability to worry for others. He was a profoundly selfish man, and selfish men are dangerous, because there was no depth they wouldn't reach for gain.

But that can't be all, you wonder, isn't everyone greedy now and again?

You wonder if it's the large men who lumber beside the carts, guarding it from quick hands and careless drunks. They're brash and rough, and they tend to shove you around like another piece of the merchandise they're meant to protect. "Little sparrow," they call you, due to your sharp elbows and quick eyes. "Fly away," they drawl, and you stand your ground for as long as it takes them to take a threatening step forward— _one day_ , you think when scrabbling into the dark back of a cart.

/

Your father calls you a body seer; and you don't know what it means. But you think it has something to do with the questions he asks—how many children did someone have? What was their hobby? How many coins in their purse? Were they willing to negotiate? It was the little things you noticed—the limp in a farmer's leg, the smudge of ink on a painter's fingers, the notches in a family walking stick. Little details that presented a story for you to follow. Your father's always nicest when you're right—so after a while, you refuse to be wrong. You grasp for the hardest clues, and you squirrel away the rare golden toothed smiles he offers you.

It only takes a few months before the village merchants are watching _you_ with caution, pulling their cloaks tightly around themselves, leaving all personal affects far away from your sharp eyes. Your father has become your keeper, and guileless as you are, you've become the danger. You pick apart the facts because you'd do anything for the scraps of affection your father shows when you solve the walking puzzles that are the merchants of Banhakru, and Avadekru, and the highbrow _business men_ of Polis.

The merchants of the capitol look down their noses at your bare feet, and the stiff clothing your father makes you wear when you go to the big city—the clothing is expensive and new, and is hardly comfortable. And it is noticeable. The way you shift, and pull at the fabric, unable to sit still for even a moment. It marks you as different, as not belonging in the loud bustle of the city.

"Legitimacy," he whispers to you one night, swirling the foul smelling drink he drowns himself in almost every night. "Legitimacy is what matters. Beyond the breath in your lungs, and the sun in your hair, and the ground beneath your feet—legitimacy is what rules the wills of lesser men." He's grinning sharply at you, bent close to toy with a blonde highlight in your hair—telling you secrets because though he says he has no daughter, you're his apprentice, and that's almost the same thing.

"Men are sheep," he whispers while laughing to himself, "they follow even a wolf if they're told to." You wonder if he thinks you're a sheep, if he thinks himself a wolf—his green eyes might frighten others, but you think they just look sad. He's alone in a room of people. It isn't until it is far past your usual bedtime that you ask him—tucked under his arm, holding up his weight.

"Not at all, dear heart." Now he does seem sad, his voice softer than you've ever heard. "You're a wolf if I've ever seen one." You don't understand, but you don't disagree. You have nothing against wolves, but why does it feel like your shoulders are just a few pounds heavier—like a weight has settled.

/

You've been with your father's caravan for one summer when you meet Enrick; he's a large square boy whose voice is soft, with eyes even softer. He shows up that first night, when even your father's guards are out drinking before he asks how much a booklet of paper is. His large hand is curled into a fist around rusted copper chips, and you know they're worthless—hardly worth the dirt beneath the wheels. But you lean over the rail, a wooden hilted dagger waved wildly, like somehow the boy twice your size will be frightened—he does take a step back, but then he asks again. "How much for a booklet of paper?"

"Why?" You ask, head tipped because you can't fathom why such a brutal looking boy would want something as useless as paper. The swords and dagger in the next cart, surely, or maybe even the farming equipment they'd just purchased from the crumbling farm at the end of town.

"I'm a writer," the boy supplies, nervous dark eyes skipping to everybody that stumbles out of the tavern drunk and loud—it was the first time you saw how someone so big, could look so small. It was the curve of his shoulders, and the fidget of his fingers on the useless copper. Your father called you a body seer, regaled customers on how your eyes missed not a thing—such a sharp little sparrow he had—and it isn't until now that you wished you could look away. That you didn't notice the faded bruise at the collar of his shirt, or the almost healed split to his lip.

You ask him what he writes, because while you have a cart full of book, you've never opened one—never even thought to learn how to read.

"Stories," his eyes brighten, "of places far from here. Of heroes." It's the witching hour, and the moon is already beginning to sink when the pelt of the tavern is thrust open and your father leaves with a ravaged man of many scars—the golden sash around his waist says he's important. But it's your sharp eye that sees the boy's features mirrored in this harsh man. They're laughing loudly enough to disturb the quiet, and your father's golden tooth matches too well with the savage man of war he slings his arm across. The boy flinches, and your mind it made up.

"Write me a story," it's a demand, thrusting a bound set of paper into his hands, refusing the useless copper; a story about adventure, and danger, and most importantly. "About a sparrow."

/

You've been _little sparrow_ longer than you've been anything else—the women at the orphanage called you many names, they could never keep all the children straight. Balti, Richme, Lina, Quinta—it was harsh eyes and sharp tones that called to you, not any particular arrangement of letters.

You never wonder why you didn't have a name; it's because you didn't have a family, no one was there to give you one. You've heard of name day celebrations; the bright fires and the gathered people on a child's firth season. Your village didn't have many, because very few children lived to one—too far north, the women who ran the orphanage would mutter when another family began their mourning.

Enrick is almost twice your age, but he never listens when the other boys tease him. He's a second now, his green sash tied across his barrel chest, his face bloodied and broken. But he always smiles for you, always sits in the shade of a tree when he's given a moment between beatings to guide your finger across the words of yet another book. He's learning how to speak English, and though he can barely understand it, he tries teaching you.

You're reading about Alexander the Great—a man from many seasons ago, before the bright sky and the blood rain, before the towering clouds and the acid fog. A man who conquered the world, all of it—his horse black as night, and his shadow so frightening even the beast couldn't face it. So instead, they rode toward the sun.

You try saying the name, butchering the syllables until they're jumbled and ruined—the strange mark twisting your tongue impossibly. But Enrick says is perfectly, the ridiculous letter hard and strong—"A _leksa_ nder." You like how it sounds; like everyone had to pause and really think about the letters. On how they smashed together to make a name. You want to make it yours.

"Alexander," he ponders, "isn't that too long for a little sparrow?" You know he says it with something akin to affection, but you shove his shoulder nonetheless. You haven't been _little_ since last time you saw him—you can jump from the highest roof and hardly stumble. You can carry a full arm load of swords without effort. You're practically grown—it doesn't matter that you're just over eight summers old.

"Lexa," you settle for the best part of the name right now—the part that makes even Enrick pause to corral the sounds. He says the name and smiles, nodding—you like how he says it. His mentor hollers for him to stop lazing about, and you shove him away, cradling the book in your lap.

"Toward the sun," you remind him; because that was how Alexander conquered the world, toward the sun. Surely your namesake had everything figured out if he conquered the whole world—Enrick was just trying to win one fight. Or maybe, just not lose so badly.

/

Ambushes happen; bandits and rogues cast out of their villages hunt the dark paths in the deepest parts of the forest. They linger for caravans and slaughter everyone within—you've been through a few, but your father's men are hardened warriors from battles on the worst of the borders. They don't flinch when howlers fall from the trees with sharp blades, and black painted faces.

This time is no different, you figure, tucked away in the darkest corner of the weapons cart—your small, narrow hands wrapped around your favorite wooden dagger. The sounds from outside are sharp and the taste of copper in on your tongue—you don't like how quiet it's gotten. You don't know what the silence means, because your father's men are loud brash men. They cursed and insulted, and desecrated the men they kill—this quiet was bone deep and frightening.

With the silence still ringing in your ears the cart's cover is tossed back, and you flinch forward, and not away—dagger thrust with the loose knuckled grip Enrick had taught you, forward and twist. And suddenly you can't move any more—your blade is stuck between a man's ribs and his eyes look black in the dark. You tip forward off the lip of the cart, half pulled by the man, until you're barely supporting both your weights.

The dagger slid in too easily, his red, red, _red_ , blood spills over your hands and you see too much of the whites of his eyes. His pupil swimming like muddy brown frogs on a too large pond—he looks surprised, your brain will supply later. His mouth gaping like a caught fish, his large, large, _large_ , fingers scrabbling at the fur line of your collar to drag you to the ground as he crumples.

You've seen dead men before, many actually—but you've never seen a _dying_ man. You didn't realize how important this distinction was until this moment—until you watched the glaze sluggishly pull at the color of his eyes, and he stops. Everything, he just stops. He's too heavy to move, his frame set upon yours and you're left to stay there. Pinned beneath a dying man in the cold of a northern winter.

You tell him how sorry you are, that you hadn't meant to—that he'd simply startled you. But you stop apologizing when you see the strewn frame of your father across the path in an embankment of snow. His body lays strangely, and you can just make out the glint of his golden tooth and necklace in the moonlight. He looks so small dead—more a little sparrow than you ever were, because you could still grow—and he was dead. He would never grow again.

The second half of your father's men find you in the morning, the body upon you stiff with death, and you'd run out of tears by the time you were pulled gracelessly to your feet. Nothing. You feel nothing—as dead as the men laying on the ground. Your once light colored clothing are now rusted with dried blood, your hands shake, but you hadn't realized you'd taken the dagger from the man's chest, had it curled tightly in the grip of your left hand.

They ask you what happened, shake you until you can give them an answer—you tell them how quiet it was, how so many people died silently. About how the man had gurgled in his own blood before he'd died—you haven't even seen ten summers yet, but you know what a dying man looks like—you know how warm blood melts snow, and light colored fabric hides nothing.

"Little sparrow," they begin, but you stop them—that wasn't your name, never had been. But your new name had belonged to just you and Enrick before now, it had felt like the world's biggest secret. But you're not a brittle little bird anymore, no. You've darkened your hands with blood, and you think this may have been how Alexander felt, when he took his first step toward the sun. A blistering heat in his chest, and an impossible cold in his bones.

"A _leksa_ nder," you supply while wiping your blade on your already ruined shirt. "Lexa," you settle. You try to close your father's eyes, but they are stiff and the green eyes that match your own stare sightlessly at the sky. You place two golden coins over his unseeing eyes, because even in death he wouldn't settle for useless copper.

"It's a two day ride to the next village," when you say this the living men start and are confused. Their employer was dead, why did it matter how far it was? You're not a child anymore, you don't think you ever were—just pretending to be. You father had called you a wolf once, had seen something below the flesh and bones—some hidden thing lurking in your heart. This delay will be a problem, especially with winter chasing you tail so closely—you need to get moving.

The men don't know how to handle a small girl clambering up onto the lead cart, you imagine, they seem almost numb as they filing into position. The monster of a horse at the front of the caravan has always given you trouble, tossed his head with a demon in his eye, refused to budge for you. Alexander had a mighty horse, a monster with such a frightening shadow that even he flinched away—you wonder if they had a moment like this. A horse knows a person, really knows them—you'd heard an elder say when a colt bolted away from your father, but had muzzled into your chin.

"Do you know me?" You ask him, hoping beyond hope that he had an answer, because you're lost—a wolf, a sparrow, a conqueror. He doesn't answer, and you don't really expect him to—but he tosses his head, and starts forward.

Not toward the sun, as the blanket of night has fallen—but you chase the moon toward the horizon.

/

The ambush had shattered the order of the caravan, the unrest was felt all the way to that first village—the horses moved, the men walked, and you—remained. Sat at the front like you had any notion of what you were doing—not even ten summers, and everything already seemed so _heavy_.

The sell swords had tried their hand at bartering, tried to take up your father's mantle of silver tongued snake, but they were slow brutes kept on the ground by muscle alone. Not a working brain between them. But people recognized you—you were your father's leashed body seer, your eyes as sharp and green as his had been, and you've learned how to mimic his smile. All tooth, wide and unsettling. You slip into a guard's deal, asking about his mother's health—you see a glint of poppy power at the bed of his nail, and a woven necklaces decades older than he.

"She'd do well with a night-leer mixture," you intone, turning his eye toward the sluggish green bottle in your palm. The sun catching it just right, looking to have a star caught within the muck. "Finest you'll find this side of the ice," And he's sold. Your familiar face makes things easier—you are your father's wolf, after all. And these men are sheep, just looking for proper direction—they don't see the sharp line of your teeth, or that _something_ in your green eyes. That's alright.

"A girl," a distressed mother of two whispers, "and a _gonakru_ of bandits." They don't realize the ugly ruined men lurking in the shade of the carts are _yours_. That they'd follow a girl if it meant their pockets were full of coin; that you had that something they lacked, the thing that had kept your father in control for so long. Despite being the whip of a man he was, a man who'd never picked up a weapon in his life—yet still a dangerous man.

Unlike your father, you've killed a man—the rust had been in the beds of your nails for days, despite how hard you'd scrubbed. Rharn is the oldest of your father's guards, and he teaches you how to wield you small wooden knife—how to use your small size, and your sharp mind to take down men twice, three times, your size.

/

Home is a foreign word to you, because you don't believe you have one. You have wagon wheels, and dirt paths and towering trees—the village you lived in until you were five was just a place. One you'd never been back to since you'd left—it makes you think maybe your father had stopped by twice a year just to see you. To catch glimpses of you at the orphanage, to see if his blood kin still lived—not his daughter, his _apprentice_.

A war at the border just beyond the small plains village had erupted in the last months, you'd be on the far side of the world gathering delicacies and exotic mixtures. Farther than any other caravan was willing to travel—through battles and across borders. But somehow it brought you back here—twelve summers old, just over two from your father's death. He'd died in winter, and it was now spring. You're taller, but still as thin, shoulders brittle looking but strong—the ash gray and cold metal of your armor is intimidating. Your wooden dagger settles on your thigh, but a sword has joined at your waist.

"My girl," a woman croons, "my darling girl!" She'd all elbows and knees, her skin dark from constant exposure to the sun, and you hardly recognize the woman who was almost your mother—the one who'd left you at the orphanage because she'd been just a girl herself. It's when she goes to throw her arms around you that your men react, blades already sliding from their sheaths, bloodlust in their eyes.

You catch her by the shoulders, and though your hands are not large, she seems smaller because of the contact—you reach her chin, but she's bones and paper-thin skin, and her hair is thinning and brittle. She was beautiful once, but a plague had ravished the north. Had torn through the villages at the far border, and threatened to wipe each and every one of them off the map.

"I'm not your girl," you assure her, voice low, because so much of you wanted this your whole life—for the woman who looked so much like you to give you even a moment of consideration. To just look at you, and realize she'd made a mistake—you would have forgiven her anything, if she'd only asked you to. "I might've have been," you try to push her away, to make her take her own weight, "Once."

She wails, her thin bird like arms spread wide until you're clasped to her chest—she smells like moss and smoke, and something lingering you recognize. Death.

"My Ailbhe," she sobs, her large tears getting lost in the dark winter color of your hair, her fingers dig into the rough leather of your armor. _Ailbhe_ , that's what you would've been named had she wanted you. "My precious Ailbhe." But you'd named yourself—you and a soft warrior boy from the other side of the plains—a boy you missed dearly. You remove her gently, but you know your eyes are hard—you see it in the glee your men display. You're a wolf, and this brittle little sheep wishes to know the real you—

But you can't. You see the hollows beneath her eyes, and the yellow tilt of her skin. You know she only has days, no more left in her—she's grasping for strings that she'd long since cut. Nothing tethered you to her anymore—but you can't let her die alone, it unsettles your stomach and locks your bones. So you guide her to the hall you and your men intend to stay at for the night—tuck her into the bed you'd rented for yourself, and brush her hair back.

"My Ailbhe," she murmurs, her dark eyes already losing focus, the manic glint she'd had outside fading away as her energy leaves her. You don't tell her that you aren't Ailbhe, because that girl had never existed. You'd been Balti, Richme, Lina, Quinta—Little Sparrow, and Alexander; though you only ever were called Lexa. But how hard could it be to be Ailbhe for a night? To be the girl who might've been a healer, or a farmer, who never left the village and hadn't seen the world.

"Yes, _nomon_." The word is clumsy on your tongue, because you realized you've never said it—you've never had a mother, and it is sour this night, because you're pretending. This woman isn't your mother, any more than you were her daughter. You want to rage, want to toss her shaking pale hand away and leave the inn—want to tarnish this moment with anger, and hate, and everything you've learned to bottle up inside.

But she says, "my girl" so softly, so lovingly you lose your flame. She could've been your mother, once long ago, but now she's just a dying woman who had no one else. You don't like how pity tastes on your tongue, like ash and smoke and the last bitter night in winter.

When her eyes close, and her chest stills, you press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, "My name is Lexa, _nomon_."

Your caravan leaves before her pyre is lit.

/

"They've found the _Heda_ ," you've heard the title before, the reverent whispers of warriors and peasants alike. Of a being sacred, and eternal, and cherished—the spirit of their leader had left its last chosen just before you'd been born. A grand battle on mountains and ice rivers, of ten thousand men, and a ultimate victory—a life had ended that day, and the search for the commanders spirit had begun. You've heard low stories of how they always found the _Heda_ young. Could corner the village, and gather the child before it could be molded by anyone other than the last commander's generals.

But this time, the spirit was illusive. Spiritual men who'd never failed before travelled to every end of the map, to every village, and they'd yet to scent the eternal soul. They searched the eyes of babes, and couldn't find a thousand memories stashed away in newborn blue. Your men laugh louder at every perceived failure—you know they say _Heda_ in the same reverent whispers as everyone else, but they need to pretend. That this unusual length without known command is not bothering them; that they hadn't become bandits simply because the one they followed wasn't present.

They were loyal men with no one to be loyal too.

Your caravan is stopped on the road just outside Polis, a woman with a golden sash and ashen features stops your massive beast of a horse with just an outstretched hand. She isn't tall, but there's something deadly about her posture—something in the way her finger toys with the hilt of her blade. Her hair is light colored, and her eyes narrow—she'd beautiful, you think. Maybe the most beautiful woman you've ever seen; but that seems like a disservice, so you don't say it.

"No merchants, not even a _goufa_." You bristle, because no one has had the mind to call you a child in years—you're small, and your face still round from youth, but had you been on the path of the warrior, you'd almost be old enough to be a second. You can see she likes the reaction she got, see it in the quirk of her lip and the tilt of her chin. You're off the cart's lip before you can think, and all the warriors at the cities gates draw their blades. You imagine they weren't used to someone not listening; this woman is imposing, especially now that you're flat footed and looking up at her.

"Still haven't found your _heda_?" It's a losing hand, you know that from the start, but are still somehow surprised when the hilt of her blade lands swiftly and sharply against the rise of your cheek. Stars burst and darkness swells, but you have just enough mind to bark _pleni_ at your men before they can even think to throw themselves into the mess of an encounter. The blood on your cheek is bright and sluggish, and you have a mouthful of copper to spit on the ground.

"I take that as a no?" You're cheeky, and for your trouble you get another solid blow from a metal studded fist—this cheek must be your weaker one, because you're positive you lose a minute or two. Because when you begin the agonizing climb to your feet, there's dirt in your mouth. The woman is practically growling, and she doesn't let you say anything else before grabbing you by the collar of your vest, and hoisting you from the ground—you take a moment to marvel at how strong she was. You're not large by any means, but you're solid—and she is only a hand taller.

You hear many harsh bellows of _Anya_ , while you get a closer look at her face—she looks sad, and it's something you've become so familiar with over the seasons. The dull edges of her eyes, and the harsh pinch of her lips. She was sad in the same way Enrick was sad, silently and stubbornly—like giving into the feeling would consume them whole, and they would be nothing afterwards.

She sets her knee harshly into your stomach, and you can hear your bones groan in protest—you can hear the creak in your jaw when she carves the shark metal tip of her knuckles into your skin. Your bloody, and limp, and she is _so_ angry. This woman who's seen a thousand battles, who'd been forced to kill her own brother when he'd be become a reaper, swallowed by madness. She'd held you _so_ gently as you died—cheeks cold from the harsh weather, the snow crimson around you, her hands impossibly small against the rough beard hiding the ruined mess of your jaw. You'd barely been able to see her, your vision foggy and dipping into black.

Her voice had been small and shaking when she'd murmured, " _yu gonplei ste odon, heda_ " and you think she was crying. And all you wanted to do was make her feel better. Let her know that you'd find her again—this bright, strong second of yours. The darkness in your vision was melting and sharp, it dulled and expanded and suddenly you couldn't tell if you were outside Polis or on the peak of the further mountain north. But Anya was here, and that made it alright—Anya was alive. Your lips were sluggish with remembered cold—and fresh bruises—but you just want her to feel better.

" _Yu gonplei nou ste odon, onya. Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim._ " Your fight isn't over here, Anya. May we meet again. You don't know why you said it, because you've never met this woman before, but she drops you like your skin has become molten. Like even brushing you burns her, and a hush has fallen over the gathered warriors. You don't realize, because your ears are ringing, and your eyes are watering, and it takes you twice as long to stand up.

But you do stand up.

"That all you have?" Your mouth is filled with blood, but it feels like cotton—your knees shake, and one arm is useless at your side, but your standing, on your own two feet. And—the woman isn't. She's on her knees, eyes just a little too wide, features contorted into something that looks like awe—or maybe horror. You don't remember hitting her, but maybe you had, somewhere in the black.

" _Heda._ " She gasps, and it's a strong sound coming from such a beautifully deadly woman—but the confirmation is all the gathered needed to follow suit. Clattering to their knees in heavy armor, and thumping battle worn fists against their chest. An army, felled by a bloody girl in too big clothes who hadn't even been able to lift a fist. You're confused, and swaying, and you can distinctly saying, "No, I'm Lexa."

Before you fall into darkness.


	2. lambs (to war)

**NOTE:** Oorah; chapter two. 8)

 **SUMMARY:** Before the world ended there had been an interesting curse; "May you live in interesting times." Chaotic, and turbulent, and dangerous. These are such times. Before the 100 crashed on earth there was a whole society fighting for their right to exist every day. A world where children go to war, mountains devour villages and stars fall from the sky.

"Maybe it makes us both villains," it's a sad thought, without heart and without soul, "maybe there are no heroes."

(or)

We know the commander who united the twelve grounder clans, who made choices with her head, and not her heart. But how did she get like that? She found victory on the back of sacrifice, but belief was a little harder to grasp.

"Go back inside, sky girl." Some rebellious shard inside howls stay, but it is one impulse amongst many—and it will not win this night. "There's nothing out here for you tonight."

* * *

You don't speak for two moons, glowering and angry; coiled tightly in the corner of spacious rooms and grand halls. You've only ever known cramped carts and filthy taverns. Thin soft servants flit in and out, using soothing tones like you're some type of rabid animal. Cornered and dangerous, as if all you needed was a considerate hand offering food and safety. No—safety would be your caravan, would be your men, and would be the darkest corners of the woods. You knew the whole world; because no particular part of it was your home. You knew the mountain passes of the north, the salted isles of the south, the harsh deserts of the west, and the lush forest of the east—your shelter was open skies, and your craft was selling pieces of yourself to people who would never really know you.

When you woke that first night your dusty travel clothing was replaced with pale loose silk and soft flowing cotton; dirty fingernails itching at the fabric because it was _too_ comfortable. Soft adults years your senior speak to you like a child, spinning words in both your native tongue and _English_ , which you understood only sparsely. They called you _heda_ always, as if not a single one of them knew your name. You were just a fulfillment to them, something they'd been looking for—even though you hadn't been lost. At least, you didn't ever feel lost.

You refuse dinner for the fifth night in a row, no longer even picking at the lavish meals left near the door, your body is weak, and your mind dulling. The walls depicting pictures of people you did not recognize growing fuzzy and inarticulate—you don't know what you intend to accomplish, and some logical, adult part of you know you're being childish. Acting your age. But you don't want to be here, you want the familiarity of open space, of control, and familiarity—you don't want to be lost anymore, because it wasn't until that found you that you lost your grip on _everything_

You're half-asleep when she slips in, pressed into a corner, fingers wrapped loosely around a metal utensil—too dull to do much damage, but it had been presented with the bread from when you were meant to break your fast. She's a shadow slipping from dark patch to dark patch, utterly silent and united with the lack of light—hoisting you up with sure hands and a brutal grip, a strangled sound erupts from your throat and you thrust your dulled bread knife toward her mass. You know what warriors are capable of—those with blue and purple sashes are hard enough to manage, but a golden one? You'd never stayed long enough to worry about their ability.

"You have them all fooled." She's hissing like a disturbed snake, rattling off words with a vibration in her throat. Your feet don't touch the ground when she holds you against the wall—you've never been the tallest, or the largest, but you're quick, and you know how to take a blow. _Thick headed_ , your father had said it like a compliment. "You're not him." _Him_. The last commander, the man who had the heart of a nation nestled comfortably in his hands—who was loved more than he was hated. A man who had been dead for as long as you've been alive. Mention of him made you bristle because so many people spoke to you with a familiarity that they hadn't earned—because they assumed you were this _heda_.

It's with frustration that you kick off the wall and thrust what slight weight you have into her superiorly muscled body; she hardly wavers, but you're quick. And unpredictable. Twisting from the grip on your collar, you drop a thin bony shoulder and lodge it in the center of her chest—she didn't wear armor, and it was a relief that she released her hold and staggered back a step. You scamper away to the far side of the room, and hold her in your sight—she was still beautiful, this Anya, but you didn't care anymore. Because she was dangerous, and you hadn't lived this long by being careless.

"I'm not." You agree, because it is the one thing you have in common—everyone else gives you this man's reverence, his honor, but you aren't him. No matter what they say. And this scorned beautiful warrior is the only one that agrees with you. You feel claustrophobic and alone; and for a stashed away orphan, that was an accomplishment. Your fingers tighten around the tarnished silver of your dull knife, and you slowly move toward the door, away from her lengthening shadow—the hall is silent, and you know she'd dismissed those who typically linger in the long passages. They think you safe with a dead man's second.

She doesn't move to stop you, only watches you with hidden eyes—you wonder what had changed, she'd been the first to say you were a dead man, but after the rituals that would prove their claims, she'd backed away and refused to be a part. You think you know why—you're a body seer, after all, a merchant wolf with a silver tongue and a golden smile. You toyed with the golden molar you'd gotten to honor your father, cold and metallic in your mouth, always reminding you faintly of blood. You watch her with inscrutable eyes and tip your chin.

"He was gone long before they found me," you supply, breaking the silence like a snapped cord; you know you've gotten it right when she reacts. Like a bull catching a glimpse of red, she barrels forward and it's only a quick decision to dive to the right that saves you. If you were who they claimed—some sacred figure of leadership—the man she loved would be dead, completely and wholly. You can see it in the clench of her jaw, and the flare of her nostrils—she had hoped beyond hope to never find the next in line, because that allowed some lingering possibility that he had lived. This nameless commander that you were supposed to have been.

You are quick, but she'd quicker, snagging two fingers into the loose fabric of your collar and drawing you into her curled fist. Stars erupts more readily than the dark spots, and you're proud of yourself for keeping your feet—even more proud when the dull knife you've kept curled to your forearm lashes out and digs a harsh blunt line of red down her bicep. The red is sluggish—and not yours—which is the best kind. Without question that is the last blow you land.

But you refuse to stay down, even when your body aches, and your mind is foggy, you mindlessly—and sightlessly—stagger to your feet despite the weeping wounds littering your body. The crimson soaking into the pale fabric of your clothing; your feet are heavy, a thousand pounds each, but it isn't until you attempt a step toward her that she husks, "Stop." All you can see is the gold of her sash, she's cast into darkness from the moon lingering at the top of the trees. There's something in her hand, a piece of fabric coiled tight around her fist. She tosses it toward you, it had just enough weight and shape to tumble across the ground at touch the toes of your bare feet.

"Go, _goufa_." She's sneering, but even in the dark, her face doesn't match the tone. How could someone hold so much sadness? "You don't belong here." _And you never will_ , seems to linger unsaid, but she doesn't move toward you again. She's stoic and untouched, ruby glinting on her arm where you caught her with your dull blade. This isn't a retreat, you promise yourself, as you grab the bundle—eyes never leaving her, ears listening for any movement in the hall.

It isn't running, you tell yourself.

* * *

You've always had a fascination with legends. The tall tales of people long dead who had done extraordinary things. Men who conquered the world, and women who enslaved the sky—the commander has always been a legend. A spirit more than a person, a feeling more than a truth—the people need something to believe in, when their kin are swallowed by ravenous mountains, and their warriors frozen in ice fields. You've heard your fill of stories involving the leader; of grand battles, and risky tactics—failures glorified just as readily as the victories.

It hadn't taken word long to trickle through the villages, each version slightly different, each tale taller the further from Polis you trek— _heda_ had been found, marched on the capitol with an army all their own, a hundred kill marks and a reaper's hook rusted with blood. You stand in a paltry market in stolen clothing; listening to warriors eagerly gossip, their eyes bright, their smiles hungry and wanting. Life is pouring into the gray that had lingered in every gaze you've come upon. Everyone is bustling around as if it was the first day of spring, and not the bitterest day of autumn.

It takes you a month to reach the northern border, closer to your home village than you'd have liked, but you hadn't known where to go. The living you'd poured your all into had been crushed by a forced destiny—one that you didn't even believe was your own. That night in the beacon of the capitol, Anya had given you two things—the wood handled knife you'd always kept with you, and a pale blue sash. The mark of a warrior just beyond a second, one who had proven themselves, but was still just an able body—until merit garnered a sash of a much darker, richer blue. Inside the deerskin pelt was the other sash she'd given, absolutely hidden from sight—the vibrant bright crimson tangled with golden pendants. The mark of the commander.

You don't intend to find the battlefront, not truly, but the cold addled your mind, and the dark turned you around until there were campfires and hunched bodies. A man easily twice your size thrusts a sword beneath your chin when the first hint of light crosses your face; his dark eyes calm, his expression hidden by a full beard and curling tattoos. His brow furrows, but he takes you in—pale blue sash, dark tanned skin, and dark curling hair. This close to winter, none of your father's northern blood shows.

" _Gada_ ," he rumbles, his lip twitching just a little—you don't like how he looks at you, like he knows things that he shouldn't. That he can tell your years too young to have this colored sash—not even old enough to be a second. "Get more wood." He releases you and thrusts you toward the wood again, toward the axe lodged edge first into a stump. Even though you can hardly feel your fingers, you curl them around the handle and heft it up and over your shoulder. You crave the heat of the fire—two candle marks in the wood, and a night in the warmth of the fed flame. It seemed the only course of action.

* * *

The man who had put you to work that first night is Gustus, his accent southern and his words few—despite his gruff countenance, he shepherds the younger warriors. Giving them tasks and pushing them beyond what they'd previously thought their limit—he seems to enjoy knocking you to the ground when you spar. Sweeping your legs clean out from underneath and leaving you heaving for breath in the snow. You don't know why you stay—you fall asleep every night aching and exhausted, you wake up too early every morning, but there is the same sense of belonging as there had been in the caravan. Men and women who worked together for a common goal.

You don't even feel like you're in a war zone until the middle of winter—night falls and the fires blaze, but you've had a buzzing sensation in your bones all afternoon. Growing more agitated as the sun sank toward the horizon; something feels wrong, but Gustus pushes your head to the side and tells you to water the horses. It is when you're ensconced in their pen that you feel the eyes on your back, crawling up your spine. You've always had a sense for this, for the disturbance of air, which had allowed you to survive through your childhood of bandit ambushes.

You aren't playing at warrior anymore, this game has gone too far, especially when a cold blade it notched under your chin, and a face riddled with scars presses into your temple. "What've we here?" A whistle through obviously missing teeth, the rough white fur of an ice nation warrior obvious at the corner of your eye. "Sending their lambs to war, are they." It wasn't a question, though his voice tipped and slowed—he inches the blade higher, which brings you to your toes. Fear thundering through your veins, pushing down logic and courage, and anything that had kept your alive before.

You don't know how to die—you wonder if it is some moment of acceptance that allows such a fate. You know that if you close your eyes, you'd feel the cold blood on your cheeks, and Anya's small hands cupping your face as you died. Tumbling clumsy words falling from your lips—but it wasn't you. Neither was it you who had stopped your loud metal cart in the center of a towering forest of metal and glass—burning clouds chased across the sky, and harsh boiling winds poured through streets. People screamed, everyone died—even you. Until you lived again.

"I'm not a lamb." You don't know how your voice doesn't shake, but you maintain the detached tone you'd practiced quietly into the fire—when it was your turn on watch. "I'd much rather be a horse." With a sharp rotation, and a bark of manic laughter, the herd of stallions start and rear. You've been around stubborn animals your whole life—beast and monsters that'd stomp you into the ground if you weren't careful. The ice nation warrior stumbled backward, just barely avoiding a set of hooves. You're not moving away, you're moving toward the largest of the animals—he pulls the carts because he bucks anyone who's tried to saddle him.

He fights, dancing in a tight circle, but you match him, sure in a way you can't understand—like you've done this before, like he could recognize the bright intentions in your eyes. You turn him toward the full moon and swing onto his wide back, fingers curled into the coarse hair of his midnight colored mane. You see the red blood of the ice warrior's head against the broken gate—his gaze vacant and upturned. His lonely set of footprints drag through the snow—a quiet man with only a short blade and a threat. A scout. Your monster is the first out of the gate, only half controlling his direction—not through camp, which is now loud with activity, but back the way the man had come. To the east, toward the half frozen river—a quick running thing that was foolhardy on the coldest of nights.

You try to quell his gallop, but the beast has his own direction, his own desire, and he wishes to run—churning up snow and flying past bare trees, you don't know if you've ever been more scared. Or more alive. Both hands curl into his mane, and you spy the herd of war horses close on your steed's hoofs—of course, he was their lead. He banked sharply and broke into an open field—snow was falling, and you can make out the gathering specks of torch light. A hundred, a thousand, a million—it seems unnecessary to count past a handful. Especially when you're riding right toward them—war horses don't fear fire, and are trained to charge enemy lines.

The first sharp crack of your mount's hooves makes you hunch closer to his back—another, louder this time. The river. You can practically hear it rushing beneath the snow covered ice. The herd is weakening the ice, threatening it in such a way that you don't think you'll make it to the other side. The first few warriors throw spears, shattering the breast plate of two horses—their thousand pound bodied crashing ungainly to the ground, and the ice spiders outward. You want to feel remorse, but your mind is sharp—tracking the shaking lines of snow, and with effort, you bank your monster to the right, toward the harshest crack of ice. You trample men who try their luck with blades and arrows, and it isn't until a glancing blow curls against your beast's side that he rears and you roll from his back.

Shoulder blades curl in pain, and you just roll out of the way of a dancing hoof—you need to move, you need to keep going. Ducking below a wild swing, you shove a foot into a man's chest, pushing his back enough that you can wretch his blade from the fracturing ice, and slam it two handed through the pale leather pelt of his armor—his eyes are green. Like your fathers. Like yours. He would be your kin had you been raised like a normal northerner. You think you cry louder than he does, your eyes wide, your mouth worrying sounds that didn't belong in a warrior's throat—but you aren't a warrior, are you? You're just pretending—you're always pretending. Shoving yourself backward and back toward your panicked horse, you clamber back onto the beast's back and shoot for the opposite shore—half the herd had been downed, and with each equine body thumping into the loosening ice, it began to break.

Large fissures raced under the scattering army, chaos rolling through already shattered ranks as men began falling beneath the ice—as large disks of what had once been solid ground upended—tossing entire groups into the frozen coffin that the river had become. Ducking your body low, a bloody sword tucked close to your side, you imagine you're going to die—that no one will really know what happened this night. A tragedy that saved your kin—the men and women who you care about, despite the claps to the back of the head when you miss a block, or the ridiculous tasks you're asked to do just because they say so.

No one calls you _heda_ , no one is soft—no one treats you like a wounded animal. Just a thick headed girl who stumbled into a war she'd pretended her whole life didn't exist.

The hard sound beneath your beast's hooves grounds you, straightening your spine, and tightening the grip on his mane. The pilfered sword is raised, and with a control that seems only possible because of the quiet, you turn to face the river from this opposite shore. Its madness, the trashing bodies between the dancing isles of ice are somehow quiet—very few manage to balance on the moving drifta, and there are no more horses. They'd all slid lifelessly below the quick current. The fast moving water dragging men beneath the unbroken ice, and you can see the feeble scratches of dying men dig at the prison of their death.

What had once been an army, was now a graveyard, a moving, roiling pit of death that still held barely living men—trying to drag themselves out of the freezing water. You're stupefied, until a blazing arrow punches through the skull of an ice nation warrior who had almost escaped—almost dragged himself to safety. You look to the opposite shore, to the tree line harboring easily a hundred of your kin, bearing torches and weapons glowing in the firelight. You want to yell at them to stop, to not kill the men who manage to escape the vicious water—but you don't make a sound.

You are death.

* * *

The number is different each time someone tells the story. A dozen men, those who hadn't reached the shore say with disdain—like they'd rather not be bothered with tall tales. A hundred is a common one, though it usually only begins that way—as the telling goes through the motions, reeling in their audience, more and more ice nation warriors get thrown into the water. Your teeth ache when you hear a thousand, something inside roiling and flinching away—unable to tolerate the possibility of just how many people you had killed. The boys you'd trained with whispered about how your whole back had been scarred with killing marks—too many to leave even an ounce of skin untouched.

It isn't until almost a moon later that Gustus corners you in the pen that holds _Trikova_ —Shadow—the monster of a horse who had brought you safely across the river of death you'd created. You still see them at night—their skeletal fingers breaking through the ice and curling around your ankle, dragging you beneath the rushing water. It buffers at your ears, until you jolt awake too suddenly—equilibrium lost to the heartbeat in your ears and the ragged breath escaping your chest. You know that it isn't a secret; you know that eyes linger on you when you ghost through the camp as it is broken down.

This battlefront has been won because of you—because you decimated their entire force in a single foolish night. Actual warrior's clap you hard on the back and jeer cruelly at those dead under the ice—you just feel numb. Cold and untouchable, and dead despite the fact that you still live. The largest northern village offers you sanctuary—ChMond—and there is to be a celebration; revel and drink, music and dance. You can't be part of that, you can't glorify the death of so many. You are honored, your story murmured to people who couldn't even fathom what a thousand dead men look like—they watch you with widened eyes. You are death.

"That is the commander's horse." Gustus is never particularly quiet, but you don't hear him regardless; spinning with an outstretched arm, your father's dagger held in a bruising hold. He is dressed in his best armor; his golden sash that is usually absent crosses his chest, and wraps around his waist. The metal of his armor is burnished, and the fabric of his clothes are washed. The kohl dragged down one of his cheeks is significant of something, and you wonder what. "None have been able to tame him since _heda_ 's fight ended." You squeeze your eyes shut, and press your forehead into the strong flank of this animal; another connection to a man so many insist that you are.

"You lot are _branwada_ with mounts," you want to sound strong, but you haven't spoken in days, and your throat is dry, "It shouldn't be a surprise no one can ride him." This horse was supposed to be your, he'd looking into your eyes and found something you still couldn't locate. Your true self, whoever that is. Gustus walks closer as your dagger lower, and finally clatters to the ground. You feel the hot huff of air as the stallion gnaws on a braid of your hair.

"He is old and stubborn," he agrees, though she has the feeling he's placating her; he exhales and you hear him turn, like there is something yet to fight. Looking up, he is a broad shouldered barrier between you—and Anya. She hasn't changed much in the seasons you've been gone, her face streaked with kohl, her armor grand and her jaw tight. She's looking at you with some unknown emotion, one even you can't pick apart—Gustus stands between you as if he doesn't wish to move, doesn't wish to allow this woman any closer. He's protective; you've managed to miss it over the last while, the way he put himself in front of you, the way his hand lingers on the hilt of his blade.

" _Gostos_ , she's yours no more." You don't like the way she says it, like you're something to be passed between them. You don't know the silent conversation they're having but Gustus clearly falters because he's turning away. Stopping just before you with the softest eyes he's ever offered you, his massive hand rests on your head and shoves you like he always does murmuring _gada_.

* * *

She watches you quietly. The fire of the hut splashing across her face, throwing her eyes into shadow so that you can't make out the sadness that always lingers there. You hadn't expected to see her again; you set out toward the furthest border, away from her capitol, the place you'd never belong. But here she is; sitting stiffly in her regalia, her hands tightly grasping a metal tin between them.

"You're not him." Unlike last time, she says it softly, like she doesn't have the strength to believe it anymore. She's looking for something, now you can recognize the darting eyes and the purse of her lips. "He was brave, and dangerous, and hopeful." You're sitting on the edge of a bed of furs, body curled inward because your layers had been removed—taken from you and you're left in next to nothing with the woman who commanded everyone.

"They say you killed a thousand men," she doesn't grin like everyone else when she says this, if anything the sadness in her eyes deepens and she moves closer to you, her knees hitting the ground and she seems more human like this. Looking slightly up at you with sad eyes. Her fingers are cold when she grasps your wrists and turns your forearms upward. She reminds you of your father the night you asked him if he thought you a sheep—he'd been sad, and resigned. Like despite everything he'd hoped for, you would never quiet be what he wanted—or expected.

"I don't see hope in you." Your eyes spark and your spine straightens, because this wasn't what you'd expected—you expected her to mock your prowess as a warrior, about how easily she'd toss you against wall and to the ground. But she didn't question your bravery or danger; just your hope. "You're so small, and already impossibly broken—and you don't even realize." Your lips purse because you don't like that word, _broken_. You jerk to pull away from her, but even despite the season of training you'd undergone, she is still so much stronger than you.

You thrash and fight, eventually catching her in the hard armor with a bare foot—you feel satisfaction when she releases you, but you know she'd done it of her own accord. You're heaving breaths, and crouched on the far side of the bed.

"I'm not _broken_." You're not some toy that had been discarded, not something _less_ because you weren't a dead man, not something _unwanted_ because you'd been a man's apprentice, and not his daughter. Maybe you were making her point, whatever it was—but tears are catching in your lashes, and they gather threatening to fall. "I'm whole. I'm whole. I'm—," you can't talk anymore because your narrow chest is buckling under the weight you'd been trying to hold for days. A thousand dead men linger in the corners of the room, looking at your with your father's green eyes and heads tips slightly to the side. Asking you _why_.

Your vision is blurry, and at first you struggle against the cold hands pulling at your wrist. Thrashing and twisting, but when you're curled under a delicate chin, wet cheeks pressed into a warm neck, you stop. Sobbing silently into Anya's shoulder, fingers trying to find purchase in the fabric of her clothing. Fingers curling and tightening as you shatter. She's murmuring useless sounds in your ear, quiet and soothing, and you should be mortified, but you can't be anymore more than you are now. Tired, and drowning, and lost.

"I have you, _strik heda_." Little commander. You don't want to be this person they're telling you that you are, but you can't fight it anymore. You can't pretend to be anything else. Maybe you are broken. But the way Anya sooths fingers through your hair makes you believe that maybe you can be fixed. Mended, like a broken bone—something that is stronger for the damage caused.

* * *

"You bear the weight of your people." She'd told you to close your eyes, worrying fingers smudged in kohl over your eyelids and up to your brow—she'd commented on how the shadows gathered below your eyes to darkly. How that had to be hidden. The commander did not show such common weakness; she stroked blackened fingers over the sleepless marks and made them a part of your armor. "You've existed for a thousand seasons, and will for a thousand more." Her marked fingers trail off into your hair, and you fuss for a moment, only to be stilled by a strong grip on your chin.

"Of all born, you were chosen. And the spirit is never wrong." Why had it been you? Opening your eyes, she seemed taken aback, as if she was seeing you for the first time. She'd taken the time to buckle and belt your into ceremonial armor that was perfectly tailored to your body—aged leather, and bronze metal. Battle worn cloth and time tested gauntlets. Your feet seemed small and delicate when slid into metal rimmed boots. "We were— _I_ was supposed to find you, I was supposed to keep you safe until you could bear this weight." This is why she always looks sad—not only because the man she loved with all her heart was dead, but because she had failed you. She had promised to find you, and she hadn't—and you'd gotten by on your own without her.

"It isn't so heavy." This weight, because it feels like it had always been there—if not on your shoulders, in your soul, in places you couldn't reach, but knew existed.

Dragging three fingers down either of your cheeks she steps back as you stand—the armor is heavy, and it weighs you down. But this isn't war, this is ceremony; this is what Anya had postponed at the capitol because you hadn't been ready. Because you hadn't belonged at the capitol, and you never would. In the shadows cast by the trees, and the glow of the enormous bonfire; you were presented to the people.

" _Leksa kom gouthru, en trimani._." That is who you are now—Lexa of the path, and forest. You didn't have a village, at least not yet, but you were somehow expected to know what these people needed. The firelight dances of the bronze of your armor, and the bright crimson of your cape, it drapes down your chest, and across your back. Gustus and Anya stand behind either of your shoulders, towering in their height and importance. The warrior's you'd spent the last seasons with look at you like they've never seen you before. Marked for command, spine straight—with the hidden aid of Anya's hand, forcing your shoulders back—and face impassive.

" _Geda_ ," your voice was quiet in comparison to all those gathered, season warriors and front line fighters. But they quiet, like a command had been issued—they search the green of your eyes, lost in the black of your painted armor. Looking for their commander. Pulling out your father's wooden handled knife, you flip it one time arrogantly. " _Ai jus ste yun_." Gustus had told you the ritual, what was needed—and though your hand shook, you grabbed the blade of the dagger, and pulled. Crimson spilled from between your fingers, the torn skin gaped when you raised the hand to show the utter red of your palm.

" _Heda_ " They chanted, the word getting louder, becoming a single voice as you pull your bloody fingers across your face. Red mixing with black, your vision dancing, but both Anya and Gustus kept you upright unnoticed to all gathered.

Blood must have blood—they spilled their blood for you, and in turn. Your blood belonged to them.

* * *

Comments welcomes, and loved! Feel free to follow me on tumblr **civilorange .** Always love questions, prompts and ridiculousness. 8)


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